


A Study in Blue and Green

by baronwaste



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Con, Alternate Universe, Humor, blue carbuncle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronwaste/pseuds/baronwaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson encounter the fandom at 221B Con, Atlanta 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Blue and Green

Of all the many hundreds of cases in which I was privileged to share risks and outré experiences with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, not one — and I do not except the affair of the Speckled Band, nor yet the frightful business of the cisgendered scorpions — stands out in my memory so dramatically as the matter which took us to America, and to the city of Atlanta, in the early spring of a year which shall be nameless.

Well, of course it shall be nameless, since years do not have names, only numbers. Suffice it to say that it was a year, and the early spring of that year, when Holmes and I, after a hair-raising ride from a distant airport, arrived at the glassed-in entrance to a hotel with a very long name and entered with steely eyes, firmly set jaws and taut musculature. 

We had come to America in pursuit of the Blue Carbuncle, that same remarkable gem which we had once recovered after its theft from the Countess of Morcar at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Holmes had ingeniously traced the gem to the possession of a hotel employee named James Ryder, but pardoned him and guaranteed his freedom on the condition that he leave the country. We subsequently learned that he had done exactly that, but that he had regained possession of the icy-blue gem and taken it with him, secreted not in the crop of a goose but in the false heel of a boot. 

Through a series of investigations and deductions which I am not now at liberty to describe, Holmes ascertained that Ryder had gone to Atlanta. “There is nothing surprising about that, Watson,” he told me. “Freedom Ryders were known in that section of America half a century ago, and where is it more likely that an experienced hotel attendant should settle than in a neighbourhood of upscale hotels?” 

Thus, as I say, my comrade and I entered the front door of the Marriott Atlanta Perimeter Center on that fateful evening, and gazed about us in wonderment. The lobby of the hotel was crowded with women, and a few men, in a dramatic variety of costume, both modern and historical. I observed several people wearing antlers, two or three in the attire of eighteenth-century pirates, and one, who bore a remarkable resemblance to my dear late wife Mary, in an elegant wedding-dress. A gratifying number of young women were brandishing riding crops. 

“Holmes,” said I, “I cannot resist the impression that you are standing some thirty feet away from me at the entrance to the hotel bar, wearing your deerstalker hat and Inverness cape in a fetching houndstooth check, and in conversation with a young person in a most abbreviated black dress.” 

“Watson,” my friend replied impatiently, “of course I am not across the lobby from you, for several very good reasons. One, I am standing beside you at this moment; two, I am neither petite nor of Asian extraction, but six feet tall and thoroughly English; three, I am male, as you have good reason to know, and the person you are observing is distinctly female; and fourth, I do not wear crinolines, but rather cotton drawers.” 

This too I had good reason to know, having investigated them closely in several thousand previous fanfics. I blushed slightly and subsided, then blushed more distinctly as Holmes took firm hold of me by a fleshy portion and propelled me toward the bar, which was furnished with a dozen or so large tables and a number of chesterfield sofas. Before we reached our apparent destination, however, we were intercepted by a tall young woman with short wavy dark hair and a fetchingly pointed chin. “Holmes! Watson!” she exclaimed. “I like totally ship you two!” 

“Your preferences in transportation are your own business, madam,” said Holmes with some asperity. “But tell me without delay: have you seen my great-great-grandson about the place?” 

I was speechless, but fortunately the young woman whom Holmes had accosted was equal to the unusual situation. “Describe him,” she demanded. 

“Tall,” said Holmes, “aquiline nose, sheer locks, greatcoat, scarf, jerky movements, appalling social skills.” 

“He’s all over the hotel,” she shot back. “Over there by the bar, and over there by the registration desk, and just coming down the hallway from the restroom.” Indeed, as I looked around me, I could see four or five young men who corresponded exactly to the description Holmes had given. It was as though Mr. Selfridge’s emporium had held a door-crasher sale on black greatcoats. 

“I have so many great-great-grandsons,” Holmes mused. “And a few great-great-granddaughters as well. My spirit seems to have spread into a very large number of avatars in this new generation.” 

I was about to ask Holmes what “avatars” were, but held my tongue, remembering the time I had asked him for an explanation of “bisulphate of baryta” and been rewarded with a two-hour dissertation on the periodic table, the history of steam navigation and the correct way to season Hungarian goulash. I have never ceased to be surprised by the fund of obscure knowledge possessed by a man who once assured me that he did not know whether the earth revolves around the sun or the reverse. 

“Let me put it this way, Watson,” he continued, not at all deterred by my failure to raise the question he wanted to answer. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and there is no other, but some of my identity has been carried on through the generations, diluted no doubt, mixed with the characteristics of other ancestors, but unmistakable all the same. I suppose you remember our friend Dr. James Mortimer, whose cherished studies were in the field of anthropology?” 

“I do,” I admitted. “He was the author of a specialized volume entitled _Some Freaks of Atavism_ , even though he was entirely unable to recognize the characteristics of a Baskerville in the man who presented himself to the world as Stapleton the naturalist.” 

“So were you, my friend,” Holmes retorted. “So were you. Nevertheless, atavism is a reality, and so is heredity, and so is the undoubted presence at this hotel this evening of several young men (or young women; they remind me of the late Irene Adler in their taste for men’s attire) who carry in them something of me, to be admired and savoured by generations yet to come.” 

“They are all, in some sense, Sherlock Holmes,” I suggested. 

“Exactly,” the original and authentic Holmes replied. “And on the same principle, there would appear to be a number of John Watsons, many of them attired in sweaters and scarves of a sort you would never consider wearing.” 

As we spoke, a young woman was approaching us through the crowded and noisy room, dressed in a skimpy and almost entirely transparent green peignoir, the sort of garment I had not seen since — well, no matter. I formed a general impression of dark knickers, garters and stockings as other parts of her ensemble, but I am not able to be certain about such details. 

“Holmes,” said I, “ what are those? I mean, who is that?” 

“It would appear to be one of this generation’s multiplicity of Irene Adlers,” said my friend, and I observed, barely glancing at her elfin face, dark eyes, bright red lipstick, angled brows and severe hairline, that she bore a striking resemblance to the woman who was sometimes known to my friend simply as The Woman. He had a certain inclination to tautology at times. 

The woman, or The Woman, strode up to us, and I could not help suspecting that she felt chilly in spite of the room's crowd and warmth. It occurred to me to offer her the use of my jacket, but before I was able to form a coherent sentence making such an offer, she opened the conversation herself. 

“I'm partial to Austenlock myself,” she said, addressing my friend and clearly ignoring me. “I would have you on that table until you begged for Darcy, twice.” 

I have said before that my friend was almost entirely immune to the charms of women, and it speaks volumes about his composure and his rational mind that he did not hesitate for a moment in his reply. As I wiped a spot or two of drool from my waistcoat, I heard Sherlock Holmes address the woman in green: “I assure you, madam, I would do it Knightley, but at present more urgent matters require my attention. I am in search of the Blue Carbuncle.” 

“Nothing easier!” she exclaimed. “They’re serving them at the bar.” She made her way through the crowd, rather like the figurehead of a particularly racy racing vessel. Holmes and I followed in her wake until we found ourselves at the bar itself, face to face with a functionary who was rapidly and smoothly filling tumblers with ice, spirits, and soda-water, using a device that appeared to me rather like a power-driven gasogene. 

“Blue Carbuncles all round,” said our remarkable acquaintance in green, and within seconds the bartender was handing each of us a tall glass filled with a liquid of a rather bright blue hue. 

“To you,” said I, bowing to the lady. 

“You too,” she replied. 

“New brew,” said the bartender. 

“They've just added it to the menu,” the lady clarified. 

I took an experimental sip, and choked as I discovered that the cocktail I had been given was both powerful and sickeningly sweet. Holmes, not yet raising his glass to his lips, looked through the liquid appraisingly. 

“We find ourselves at a crisis, Watson,” said he. “If this drink is blue in the natural course of matters, all is well. If not, it means serious disappointment to the Countess of Morcar.” 

“Say what?” I demanded. 

Holmes sipped cautiously from his glass, then made the sort of cross-eyed look that would one day be thought characteristic of a certain actor. If he could have steepled his fingertips without dropping his drink onto the lady's unimpeachable peaches, I am sure he would have done so. 

“Watson,” he said, “this drink is not merely _a_ Blue Carbuncle. It is _the_ Blue Carbuncle.” 

“Say what?” I demanded again. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson,” said my friend, “couldn’t you once in a while buy a clue without my having to explain everything? Clearly Ryder, realizing that we were close on his trail, has panicked once again, and disposed of the gem — not in a bird but in a bottle. You may recall that fate descended upon Jabez Wilson when it was announced that the Red-Headed League had been dissolved. Much the same has happened here: the Blue Carbuncle has been dissolved, and there is no hope that we can return it to the Countess. I fear there is every likelihood that she will decline to reimburse the cost of our transportation to this remote corner of a foreign land.” 

“If the case is at an end, Holmes,” I suggested diffidently, “perhaps we might at least allow ourselves an evening of relaxation, and make closer acquaintance of some of the local inhabitants?” 

As I turned to introduce myself to the lady in green, I sensed my friend move away from me. A moment later I observed him on the far side of the room, entering into conversation with the young woman in the short black dress whom we had seen earlier. I noticed that she was holding a riding crop.


End file.
